


augenblick

by eruriku



Category: The Sisters Grimm - Michael Buckley
Genre: 1970s slang is the funniest shit, Basil Grimm - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Relda Grimm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruriku/pseuds/eruriku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His offer hangs steady in the air, the magnitude of its presence so heavy that Relda can practically reach out and touch it."</p>
<p>There's a point where everything changes, and where everything else begins. Set in the 1970s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	augenblick

**Author's Note:**

> Submission numero uno for datte-ba’s 10th Anniversary Fic Contest! that I managed to submit right in the nick of time. The title is a German word that means “in the blink of an eye” or, more generally, “a decisive moment that is fleeting yet incredibly significant,” which I found relevant for the story.

When the Americans arrive, the entire venue literally explodes with sound.

Literally.

(The place actually explodes a little.)

Someone drops a tray of cutlery, emitting a loud _bang_ that startles the entire catering staff, a guest who’s already more than a little tipsy giggles and trips into her friend, triggering a domino effect of feminine tittering and gasping, and the newly arrived American guests swagger into the room with their hands wrapped all over each other’s biceps and waists, yelling greetings loudly to each other across the floor.

It is perhaps one of the crudest stereotypes she’s familiar with - loud Americans - and one she’d prefer not to see come to fruition right in front of her eyes, but Klaus and Marie, the owners of the catering business she works for, really needs to make this particular event work out for them. Even if it means having to deal with raucous and rude tourists from the West for the next five hours.

 

o-o-o

 

“Hold the phone.” Relda was interrupted by a squinting Sabrina, who tilted her head curiously at her grandmother. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with being a little loud. Should I be looking out for hints of racism in this story?”

Granny Relda just laughed and reached over to pinch Sabrina’s cheek fondly.

“Oh, _liebling_ , times were just different back then, unfortunately. And though we tried to hide it, people were more intensely judgemental than today.”

Sabrina scoffed to herself and muttered, “Don’t even get me started on today.”

“Can’t you just skip to the part where we meet the guy? Or where something blows up or a famous jewel gets stolen? Where’s the _action_ in this story!?” Puck demanded, chomping on a green and orange cookie (Sabrina didn’t even bother to ask about the cookies).

“This isn’t a brainstorming for Mission Impossible, you idiot,” Sabrina snapped at Puck, who made a face at her. Naturally.

“There’s hardly any action in this one, and nothing gets stolen,” Granny explained to the fairy patiently.

“Except your heeeaaart,” Daphne sang delightedly in her spot next to Granny on the living room couch. Puck wrinkled his nose but settled back against the fortress of pillows he’d set up behind him. Sabrina rolled her eyes at Daphne’s eagerness but did the same, readjusting her position on the floor and leaning back against the couch next to Daphne’s knees. Mr. Canis and Elvis had turned in for the night and Granny and the kids had gathered in the living room surrounded by dusty books, a blazing fire, freshly baked cookies and several mugs of some weird purplish concoction that Daphne swore tasted like caramel-flavoured hot chocolate (Sabrina was _not_ going risk it).

Daphne had, out of nowhere, requested to learn the story (in detail) of how Granny Relda had met their Grandpa Basil and of course, her grandmother had obliged, much to Puck’s dismay and Sabrina’s embarrassment. But though neither one of them said it out loud, Granny knew that they were just as curious to know how it all began.

Granny Relda chuckled again and touched her fingers to her chin.

“Oh, yes,” she smiled wistfully, a little lost in her memories of Basil Grimm, “but I certainly didn’t know it at the time.”

 

o-o-o

 

For a guy pushing his fifties and complains about being out of breath all the time, Klaus just _can’t_ seem to shut up.

He’s been yelling Relda’s name for the past seven minutes but he apparently can’t seem to understand that tonight, _he’s_ hired _her_ to be the head chef of his ridiculously popular business and that she can’t just be _summoned_ every time he needs to check a bowl of soup before sending it out.

“Marie, please!” a 26-year-old Relda begs her boss through gritted teeth while the woman stands next to her and continues calmly peeling potatoes. “It’s hard enough having to deal with your new staff but can’t you tell Klaus to at least wait until my break?”

“Oh, you know what he’s like,” Marie says placatingly, though it does nothing to soothe Relda’s pulsing veins. “Everything could be going perfectly and we could be making millions and he’d _still_ get his underwear all in a twist.”

Relda sends her a slightly puzzled glance.

“Is … is that another new American phrase you’re starting to use?” she asks, chopping up the potatoes Marie keeps handing her at an impossibly fast pace.

“Actually, it’s something the English use. ‘Knickers’ or whatever.”

“Well, it sounds nasty in German.” Marie sniggers at Relda’s words, much to the younger woman’s chagrin, and finally stops peeling the potatoes to look at her dear friend.

“Are you sure this isn't about us not taking you to the banquet in Paris last month?” she asks curiously, a small, knowing smile crinkling the corner of her mouth even further. “You know it was a last minute thing and we had to pack up and go. Andreas was the first person available to cook.”

“Andreas doesn’t even speak French!” Relda snaps, bringing the knife down hard on an unsuspecting potato and slicing it perfectly in half. Marie eyes the halved potato warily before bringing her wizened eyes back to Relda’s.

“And _you_ can?”

“Certainly better than him!” Relda receives a dubious a look before Marie sighs slightly and turns back to her task.

“You sweet thing, there will always be another chance. Perhaps next time you can come cook for us in London!” Marie’s blue eyes glimmer excitedly as she studies Relda’s reaction but none of the light there is as infectious as it normally is. Relda sets her knife down on the chopping board and stares at the cubes of potatoes that are losing their moisture, drying and waiting for the next stage of their fate. Just like her.

“You always tell me I’ll have another chance. Everyone says that. And yet I still haven’t left this one country.”

Marie’s about to open her mouth to comfort her friend when Klaus barges into the kitchen, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his tie askew. He’s breathing a little too fast for Relda’s liking and she narrows his eyes at him as he approaches her, all the while trying to stuff his large belly inside the belt of his trousers.

“ _Relda_ , I have been calling you for the past five minutes!”

“Seven, actually,” Relda mutters wryly.

“Now _you_ watch your mouth, young lady, because there is an American gentleman at table nine who has requested to speak with the chef about his dish.” Relda notices Marie shooting her a look that clearly says _Someone’s in troouuble_ but she doesn’t break eye contact with her other boss, who’s fanning his neck and face with one hand but is still sweating profusely. That worries Relda a little - it’s almost November.

“Did he actually _request_ or did he _demand_?” Relda asks testily. Klaus finally rolls his eyes, fed up with his young apprentice, and grabs her by the shoulders, steering her towards the kitchen door before nudging her into the bustling and lively dining area.

“Make a good impression, _liebling_ ,” Klaus says to Relda encouragingly, squeezing her shoulders before she’s lost in the crowd and can barely make out the sound of Marie’s voice calling “Fix your hair!” from inside the kitchen next to Relda’s basket of unpeeled and un-chopped potatoes.

Sighing a little dejectedly, Relda reaches up to undo her bun, which has come loose in the past hour. She contemplates leaving her hair down, red curly locks and all, before deciding against it and putting it back into a nicer, proper bun, if only for the sake of professionalism.

Heading towards table nine, she wonders for a split second just what kind of blaspheming and stuck-up ingrate she’ll have to argue with about the quality of her food. While she passes tables two through eight, she prepares her default explanations and even some comebacks just in case the guest and his companions get a little feisty. Relda’s expecting a loud and obnoxious group but once she arrives at the white circular table, she’s met with what seems to be a rather large and happy yet rather tame family of brothers and one sister, every single one of them sporting a head of warm chestnut-colored hair except the eldest man, whose hair is bright and yellow.

“Like, way to be totally subtle, Jonny,” one of the brothers is saying. “A tie with swans on it? Could you _be_ more obvious?”

“Chill, man, it’s not like I’m the one wearing the _shirt_ with swans on it,” the boy named Jonny replies indignantly. For two horrifying seconds, Relda’s worried that her English has deteriorated to the point that she can no longer carry on a proper conversation but she quickly realizes that it’s just the family’s thick, twangy American accent and that she’ll get used to it within a minute or so.

“Hey! Don’t diss the shirt,” the boy with, indeed, a swan-covered shirt retaliates. “Unlike you, chunky, I can actually pull this off.”

The table erupts in laughter and _Oooh’s_ \- someone even calls out “Burn!” - before the sole female clears her throat.

“If you cheese weasels wanna cut it out, we have company,” she says in an impressively sophisticated voice. Relda immediately pins her as the oldest of the siblings just as six brown heads and one blonde one swivel to stare at her.

“Far out!”

“Bitchin’!”

“Wassup!”

The blonde man sighs at his companions but gets up and extends his hand towards Relda.

“Thanks for leaving home-base to talk to us, uh. Wow,” the man clears his throat a little awkwardly while he gives Relda’s hand a firm shake. “Didn’t think you’d be this young. What’s your name again?”

“Relda,” she replies. The man offers her a tentative smile.

“Relda. I’m Baz, and these are my friends.”

Their introduction is followed by a chorus of polite Hi There’s and Hello’s and then a list of names of the brown-haired siblings - Lucy, Andy, Benji, Ricky, Jonny, Matty, and the youngest boy, Timmy, whose left arm is in a sling. Jonny’s the one with the swan-filled tie and Ricky’s the one with the swan-covered shirt. They’re all still very young - Lucy, who is indeed the oldest, can’t have been more than a year older than Relda, and young Timmy apparently just turned sixteen last week. Relda wonders what they’re all doing in Germany with someone like Baz, who’s definitely older than the other boys.

Yet as strange as the whole family is with their rhyming names and apparent bird fetish, what’s weirder is that there’s something vaguely familiar about the siblings, though Relda swears she’s never met any of the eight people at the table. (She’s pretty sure she’d remember a family like this.)

“As lovely as it’s been meeting you all,” she says to Baz in slow but clear English, “I do have to get back to work in a few minutes. Is there something wrong with your food?”

“No! Oh, my god, no. Complete opposite, we asked you to come here ‘cause we all like it so much,” Baz says. “Benji and Timmy just wanted to ask you a few questions about the preparation, if that’s okay?”

“Why, yes! Yes, of course!” Relda agrees, happy with how her visit to table nine was turning out, and eagerly faces the two boys who send her similar shy smiles.

“Do you want to sit with us for a bit, Relda?” Lucy asks kindly, already looking around for a spare chair. It’s not very professional, in Relda’s opinion, to sit and chat with her customers while she’s technically working but the family’s already made quite an impression, Baz is an absolute gentleman, and how could she ever say no to two young chefs-in-the-making?

So she asks for a spare chair from table seven and squeezes in next to Lucy to answer all of Benji’s and Timmy’s questions. Klaus eventually has to come looking for her fifteen minutes later, rushing to table nine as if three cooking ducks in the kitchen were on fire (Relda prays that they’re _not_ ) but after Relda thanks the group, shakes everyone’s hands, and smiles at Baz again, she finds herself looking back at the strange yet undeniably interesting family.

Who _were_ those people?

 

o-o-o

 

“Wait.”

Granny Relda waited, as did Puck and Sabrina, who both stared at Daphne expectantly.

“Waaaaait,” Daphne looked away from her family towards a far wall, and then to the ceiling, and then to the fireplace, scrunching her eyes and nose in deep thought before giving up and sighing.

“Ugh, never mind. I can’t figure out whether they’re Everafters or not,” Daphne said glumly. Sabrina raised an amused eyebrow and Puck frowned in confusion.

“What else did you guys talk about?” Daphne asked her grandmother. “I only need, like, one more clue.”

“Isn’t it kind of obvious?” Sabrina asked her sister not unkindly but Daphne still took offense, wrinkling her nose in Sabrina’s general direction.

“Well, _sorry_ if I don’t have a freak-o mind like you do,” she pouted, though Sabrina didn’t rise to the bait. Puck, on the other hand, was still confused.

“What the heck are you two even talking about? What’s obvious? _Who’s_ obvious?” he asked.

“That family of siblings,” Daphne mused. “I feel like they’re special but I’m not totally sure.”

Granny’s eyes practically gleamed with pride for both her granddaughters and offered more information.

“If it helps at all, Lucy, their older sister, told me a little bit about her travels all over the world, particularly to Bali. She was hugely interested in cloths and was quite a talented seamstress. She would visit various countries in South America, Africa and South-East Asia to collect and sample rare silks and threads and learn from the seamsters and seamstresses in the local areas.”

Daphne nudged her sister with her knee, a cute little smirk on her face.

“You could say she had a passion for fashion,” she muttered to Sabrina, to which Sabrina scoffed and Puck snorted.

“But what’s interesting,” Granny Relda continued, smiling at Daphne’s joke, “was that, during every trip, she’d find time to make shirts for her brothers with whatever cloth she liked the best. So she’d always come home to them with five and a half new shirts.”

“Five and a half?” Puck interrupted, a frown marring his forehead before he and Daphne simultaneously widened their eyes in realization.

“Oh!”

“I get it now.”

“I get it too!” Daphne exclaimed, giggling when Puck threw a pillow at her face, which Granny guessed was their way of high five-ing. Sabrina shot them both a strange look before turning back to her grandmother.

“And so? When did you decide that this ‘Baz’ dude was the love of your life?” she asked bluntly, but Granny could hear the lilt of curiosity in her voice.

“Not that night, but it certainly didn’t take long,” she replied thoughtfully. “After all, we _did_ get married a week later.”

“A week!?” The three kids cried out at the same time, Sabrina in shock, Puck in horror, and Daphne in pure joy.

“That’s a little surprising, Granny,” Sabrina commented, sounding a little scandalized.

“Are you kidding? That’s awful! I can’t believe you never told me you had to go through something like that!” Puck exclaimed, staring at Granny Relda with genuine sympathy. Daphne rolled her eyes at Puck - a nearly perfect imitation of her sister minus the slight head-movement, Granny noticed - before flinging the pillow back at Puck.

“ _I_ think it’s sweet,” she stated proudly, receiving a squeeze on the shoulder from her grandmother. “Besides, not everyone takes 700 years to ask each other out like _you_ two.”

Appalled and very much insulted, Puck choked on air while Sabrina elbowed Daphne’s knees roughly, the two older kids blushing furiously. Before they could start sputtering all the forms of denial that both Granny and Daphne could probably recite from memory, Granny interrupted to continue her story. Otherwise she’d never be able to finish it.

“It was quite sudden,” she admitted, her eyes glazing over again. “But everything that year seemed to go that way.”

 

o-o-o

 

Eventually Klaus gives her a break. And she needs it.

It’s definitely past midnight though Relda doesn’t bother to check what the exact time is. She steps out of the kitchen and sneaks into an empty balcony. The event is being held on the second floor so there’s not much of a view, just a panorama of the second floors of other buildings, but the night sky and the muffled noise of the party going on inside is enough to clear her mind. She breathes out a heavy sigh purely out of exhaustion and pulls out a box of Kools. Just as she’s tapped one out and lit it between her lips, she feels another presence approach her.

“Oh. Funny seeing you here,” Baz says, stopping in his tracks momentarily before smiling at the situation and walking up to her slowly.

“May I?” he asks politely and when she nods once, he leans on the balcony railing next to her and gazes at the second floors of the other buildings. She offers him a cigarette and he takes it with a smile and a nod, leaning down for her to light the end before taking a drag and blowing out the smoke towards the neighboring second floors.

“You have an … interesting group of friends,” Relda comments, facing Baz. He grins and lets out a slight snort at the mention of the siblings. He turns to face her, standing up to his full height, and in this light, Relda can see the beginnings of creases and weathered lines on his face more clearly. They don’t necessarily make him look old, just a bit wiser than anyone else his age, whatever it may be.

“They already adore you,” he tells her, still grinning. Relda blinks at him.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise!” she says, an embarrassed smile making its way onto her lips. “I only talked to them for a few minutes, and it was mostly about how to properly cook potatoes.”

Baz laughs a little before they fall into a comfortable silence.

“I know they’re kinda rowdy, but would you, uh, do you wanna come inside and join us? If you’re still on your break?” Baz asks, tilting his head towards the faint buzz of the party.

“Oh, I - I don’t want to intrude–” Relda starts.

“What, are you kidding? They’d rather spend more time with you than with me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone get on Lucy’s good side in less than a minute. That’s not normal,” he says, giving her a pointed, possibly even impressed, look.

“Oh?” Relda arches a red eyebrow in amusement. “Then how do people normally get on her good side?”

Baz scratches his cheek lightly for a second, suddenly bashful.

“Dancing,” he mutters, and she doesn’t quite catch the word.

“I’m sorry?”

“Their family - they love to dance. That’s why we came tonight.” Baz gestures towards the venue again and looks back at Relda, a little hopeful and still blushing, which is kind of endearing.

“So. You wanna join us? Show us how they twist in good ol’ Berlin?” Relda feels a laugh bubbling up her chest at his way of speaking - he’s so confident, yet humble; his kindness this entire evening has been so charming and his openness towards her undeniably intriguing.

But she doesn’t dance, so she tells him as much.

“What! It’s already 1974! Everyone dances!” Baz exclaims in disbelief. Relda scrunches her nose and shakes her head a little, indicating _No, not everyone_. Baz sighs and scratches the back of his neck.

“Well. A guy can try,” he says softly, not really to Relda, and not really to himself either. Relda’s a little shocked to feel a little disappointed in herself and almost says something stupid like “But I’d love for you to show me!” when he saves her from the humiliation.

“What about tomorrow? Do you mind if we see you tomorrow?”

Relda cringes a little before telling him, “I start work at a restaurant down the street at six in the morning.”

It’s Baz’s turn to cringe. “Jesus, that’s early. We were hoping to meet someone who could show us around Berlin and I thought I’d ask since you’re the perfect candidate. Good looks, good food, perfect English.”

As soon as he says it, Relda’s already tempted to call in sick tomorrow.

“Well, how long are you here?” She adds in that she’s suddenly conveniently open the next day.

“That’s perfect! That’s our last day here, and then we’re heading for Prague.”

The mention of the beautiful city quirks her interest and she asks him about it so fast, she almost switches back to German. He seems to be pleased that she asked and starts telling her about the massive trip he’s on with the brown-haired siblings with the rhyming names. _We’re gonna see this entire continent_ , he tells her, relaying the route they’d plotted, starting in a plane to Ireland, down to England, then further to France and heading due East until they turn tail and drop to Hungary, then Romania, then Bulgaria, before making their last turn at Turkey and starting their journey homewards across the Mediterranean countries before finishing their incredible voyage at Portugal.

Relda’s shell-shocked with disbelief, awe and a hint of envy. To have that much _money_ and _time_  to simply get on a few trains and ferries and explore the vastness of Europe - again, who _were_ these people?

Baz snaps her out of her astonishment when he laughs, quite bluntly, at her facial expression.

“You look a little jealous,” he says good-humoredly. “Never travelled before?”

Relda shakes her head. “Ever. But I would really love to. And I think I’d be good at it, don’t you think? Imagine everything I could learn from the cuisine of other countries.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Relda snorts out a rather unladylike laugh at that.

“Please. Who has the money? Or the time?” She pauses, rethinking her words. “Well, clearly _you_ do, but most people don’t.”

“It’s not that I have all the time in the world,” Baz corrects her. “It’s kind of my job to travel.”

Relda eyes him curiously and he shrugs one shoulder.

“And it’s not even about the money. I just know a lot of special people.”

What?

What does _that_ mean?

There’s the beginning of a toothy grin on Baz’s face, as if he knows something she doesn’t and God, _why_ does she always have to be so curious?

Baz eventually cracks and lets the full power of his smile wash over Relda.

“Relda,” he begins slowly. “Would you like to come with us?”

His offer hangs steady in the air, the magnitude of its presence so heavy that Relda can practically reach out and touch it. Baz isn’t so bashful anymore, in fact he’s perfectly confident, as if he knows she’ll give in and agree. As if! As if she’d go with a strange yet kind man and his band of merry brown-haired friends with their collective interests in birds, sewing, and cooking. As if she’d willingly walk up to Klaus and Marie and apologize and beg them to forgive her for just up and leaving on a spontaneous tour of Europe (though she knows in her heart that they’d probably pack her bags for her and push her through the door). As if she’d go and take this chance, for once, to do something extra special for herself.

She gives him her own delighted grin in response.

“How are we getting to Prague?"

 

o-o-o

 

“It wasn’t love at first sight,” Granny said. “It was more important than that. Your grandfather inspired me to live free and live _well_ , and that’s the most honest kind of love there is, I think.”

That seemed to be the conclusion of her story but she didn’t get a very conclusive reaction. She didn’t get much of a reaction at all.

“…That’s it?” Puck asked as if he were checking to make sure she’d actually finished her story.

“You just went to Prague and then, like, twenty years later, we were born?” Sabrina asked.

“That sucks that you didn’t even dance with him, Granny,” Daphne pitched in sadly.

“Oh, _liebling_ , not to worry! He taught me how to later on! He used to tell me he thought every lady and gentleman should know how to dance, even a little bit.”

Daphne swiveled to pin Puck with a smug look. “And what about _this_ ‘gentleman’? Doth his majesty know how to dance?”

Puck laughed, a loud, genuine _hah!_ , at Daphne’s words and, in response, put his mug down, brushed off the cookie crumbs from his pajama pants and stood up slowly, much to the girls’ surprise.

“No way,” Sabrina muttered, watching him skeptically.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Puck answered Daphne, ignoring Sabrina’s words.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! Can you teach me!?” Daphne exclaimed, clambering off the couch to stand next to Puck, kicking Sabrina’s arm in the process.

“You expect us to believe that _you_ , the Trash Prince of All Things Nasty, know how to _dance_?” Sabrina asked, rubbing the side of her arm in irritation.

“You’re gonna eat your words, Blondie,” Puck said gleefully. “I’m royalty! Of _course_ I know how to dance! They teach us to waltz before they teach us how to bow and which spoon to use for the soup.”

“Not that you ever listened, I guess?” Sabrina assumed, unimpressed. Puck grinned at her, a pearly-white, lopsided abomination, and pointed at her with one finger like she’d figured him out.

“Very true,” he agreed, turning to Daphne and taking both of the little girl’s hands. “But honestly, I _do_ know how to dance.”

Puck proceeded to twirl Daphne around and around in impossibly fast and dangerous circles to a tempo that was most certainly _not_ a waltz. Sabrina climbed to her feet immediately and started yelling for the boy to _cut it out, she could get hurt!_ but the boy didn’t even begin to slow his pace and Daphne didn’t stop laughing, not that she could even if she tried. Behind Sabrina, Relda dissolved into joyous laughter at Puck and Daphne’s silliness and at Sabrina’s overprotective reactions.

In the back of her mind, Relda let herself wish that Baz was with her to witness the moment the kids were creating in front of her without even knowing it. She did that sometimes, every now and then, whenever she thought _Oh, Baz would’ve loved this_ or _Baz would’ve found that so funny_ or _Baz would probably have chosen ketchup, not mustard_. She would catch herself wishing he was still with her - with _them_ \- to see the legacy he’d built, to meet his beautiful grandchildren, and maybe to teach _them_ how to dance, too. Puck was doing a fine job already, but sometimes, she had to let herself wish.

And though the truth was that she wouldn’t be seeing Baz in a while, that was perfectly alright with her. She could wait a little longer and besides, she had the feeling that, wherever he was, he could see them just fine.

 

 

_fin_

* * *

 

_**(Special Unnecessary Bonus)**_   
Since I spent a good amount of time figuring out the siblings’ rough identities, enjoy a list of what little I came up with!

Lucienne, **Lucy** , 28, only female in the family, probs very protective   
Andrew, **Andy** , 27, most likely the one insulting Jonny's tie   
Benjamin, **Benji** , 25, one of the cooks-in-the-making, quiet   
Eric, **Ricky** , 23, has a shirt with goddamn swans all over it   
Jonathan, **Jonny** , 20, has a tie with goddamn swans all over it   
Matthew, **Matty** , 19, was probably the one that yelled out "Burn!"   
Timothy, **Timmy** , 16, other cook-in-the-making, has left arm in a sling how suspicious

**Author's Note:**

> God, I actually did a bit of research for this. I mean, my tabs included, like: 70s American slang, popular cigarettes in 70s Germany, common German/American names in the 20th century, maps of Berlin and Europe, my goodness.
> 
> Also, I doubt I did a good job in laying out the hints for who the Everafters are but if you think you know, by all means, yell it at me.
> 
> One last thing, I work in retail, not F&B, so please go easy on me on the technicalities of how to run a catering business. MANY THANKS, PEACE AND LOVE.


End file.
